Port Of Call
by Marauder-In-Disguise
Summary: After his ordeal with the Borg, Jean-Luc suffers from pretty understandable grief...


Beverley was awoken by a dull knocking on her quarter doors. Only one person, she knew, would knock when he knew she was sleeping, being far too much of a gentleman to let himself in and wake her.

She pulled back the covers and hastily wrapped herself in a dressing gown.

"Come in," she said quietly, watching as the door did indeed slide open to reveal the captain. He was dressed in his own nightwear – a loose, brown nightshirt – and also wore the all too familiar look on his face. Beverley sighed in sympathy as she moved forwards to embrace him.

"I'm so tired, Beverley."

"I know. Sit down."

He took his usual chair in her small living room, his hands pressed against his forehead as he tried to make some sense of whatever he had going on in his head. As Beverley stood at the replicata and ordered his favourite drink, she couldn't help but look at him. If only the rest of the world could see him as she saw him. All they ever saw was the unruffled, calm Captain Picard. She saw something far more real when he came to her like this. Since his assimilation with the Borg, Jean-Luc had been suffering from recurring, traumatizing nightmares. To be honest, he couldn't remember a night that he hadn't had a nightmare since but sometimes they were manageable. Whenever he went to visit Beverley in the middle of the night, it was because he was in the middle of what he called a 'Borg attack', when the terrors were so vivid, so utterly devastating, that he didn't sleep for days, sometimes weeks. He did of course make use of Deanna, but Beverley was his first port of call always. Deanna only saw him when he'd had time to compose himself. Beverley saw him with any and all of his guards down.

Beverley handed him his tea, sat beside him on the sofa and took his hand.

"Jean-Luc?"

If anyone had looked closely at him, they would have realised there was something wrong straightaway. Of course, Beverley and Deanna knew all about his nightly problems and the senior staff, especially the ever vigilant Data and sympathetic Will had some faint idea but no one else on the ship was aware that their captain suffered so much. He had looked tired for a long time – he was just very good at hiding it.

"I woke up crying again, Beverley," he murmured, squeezing her hand, "Crying so much that I thought Will or Data next door would be bound to hear me. These walls aren't that thick, you know."

"Are they getting worse, Jean-Luc? This is the fourth time in a fortnight you've been to see me."

"I'm so sorry. Beverley."

"Sorry for what," she asked, rather taken aback.

He stood up suddenly.

"For disturbing you every time I have a bad dream, liked a spoiled child running to it's mother. You must think me utterly ridiculous."

"I only think you ridiculous for ever thinking such a thing," she smiled wanly, standing to face him down, "This is much more than a bad dream Jean-Luc. You can't sleep, you barely eat. These dreams change you."

And she was right. During a 'Borg attack' cycle, she would watch him slowly fall apart in front of her then build himself back up, only to watch him fall to pieces again. It did hurt for her to see him like this and she knew that his vulnerability embarrassed him. It flattered her that he would turn to her in his times of crisis-she could admit that- but if she could spare him the shame he felt at every visit, she would of course give up that special part of their relationship.

She leaned forwards to embrace him once again and, despite himself, he rested his head on her shoulder.

"Don't you ever imagine for one second that I would rather you suffer in silence," she whispered, "My door is always open-always open for you."

He raised his eyes to meet with hers and was for a second overwhelmed by the understanding and feeling that was seeping from her into him as was she by the gratitude that emulated from him. Both were so caught in the moment that neither protested when the other leaned in for a gentle kiss. Beverley's breath caught in her throat and she would admit to clinging onto him when he went to pull away, if only for a second.

"I'm sorry," he stuttered, "I should go."

She sighed and held onto his hand tightly.

"If you go back to your quarters I can guarantee that you will not sleep. Stay here with me-not like that," she laughed, acknowledging the look on his face, "Merely as one friend comforting another."

"I couldn't possibly encroach on you anymore," he said, turning to leave.

"On the contrary," she said, "I'm asking you to stay."

He was so tired and he knew that he couldn't fight Beverley when she was in one of these moods. He allowed himself to be led into her bedroom and tucked in like a child. She turned out the light and joined him.

"Try and get some sleep, Jean-Luc. I'm here if you need me."

"Thank you Beverley," he murmured.

He fell asleep quite quickly and she thought for a moment that he had settled when she heard a telltale, heart tugging whimper. She reached over gingerly and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close.

He was muttering now, indistinguishable at first but then clearer.

"Please no. I'll do anything. What? You can't ask me that. My family? I could never do that to my family. RUN! RUN! Will, Geordi go! Take them with you. Take Beverley with you, for God's sake. BEVERLEY!"

On the last word he sat bolt upright and then collapsed sobbing, but still asleep, back into her arms. She thought it best not to wake him, to avoid humiliating him. They were getting worse though. The one time she had seen one in action had been close to when he started having them and it was nothing like this.

She cradled him and whispered to him. Presently, he stopped crying and his eyes flickered open.

"Oh God, I'm scared, Beverley."

"Don't be, Jean – Luc. I'm here and I'm not going anywhere."

"Thank you."

"We'll ride the storm together. I'll find a way to stop it, I promise."

"I don't know what I would do without you, Beverley."


End file.
